


Road to Nowhere

by Macx



Category: due South
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 03:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a body dump. Just a routine case, right? But it's far from it. And it gets worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Road to Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> written way back in 1995

The truck lumbered along the dirty and lonely highway. Now and then a few cars passed it, but most of the time it was alone on the streets. Empty landscape went by, now and then dotted by a small town popping up left or right. Farmland with already ripe crops sprung up for a few miles, then were replaced by more empty land. Signs told the driver he was heading north, toward the border.

The truck was of a dusty red color, the trailer greyish white. Both looked like they had seen better days. While the truck's doors spelled 'Jesse's Trans-America transports', the trailer had a different writing on its sides. 'Walker Frozen Food' the black letters told the passer-byes. It was a normal truck, one of many, nothing worth looking at twice.

Hours later the truck arrived at the Mexican/American border and was checked through by a bored Mexican officer, who simply motioned him to go on. There was already another truck approaching. On the American side the papers were checked, the truck's log inspected, and then the driver was on his way. As the truck drove on, the American officer slipped the money he had found in the log book inside his jacket's pocket. No one had had the idea to check the trailer's cargo. Everybody assumed it was frozen food. But if someone had bothered to look inside the trailer he'd have seen anything but frozen food.

Side by side a group of six or seven men huddled in a corner, dark eyes wide with fear and anticipation. They were clad in old, ragged clothes, covering themselves with blankets. Some were clutching a bag with their meager possessions to their chests, others had nothing at all. It was pitch dark inside the trailer, except for the light coming through the slits in the door. No word was uttered.

The truck drove on, its destination an American town at the Lake Michigan.

 

* * *

 

"You just drove through a red light, Ray." The calm voice of reproach belonged to a dark-haired man in his early thirties, dressed in a dark brown uniform.

"It wasn't red, it was orange," the driver objected vehemently, not bothering to look at his passenger.

"It was red."

Now Ray shot the other man an annoyed look. "Orange, Fraser. It was still orange. I'm a cop. I should know the difference between red and orange."

Benton Fraser raised both eyebrows. "Indeed you should."

"And that's why I say it was orange," Ray continued, steering the car to the left and entering another street.

"You just forgot to set the indicator," the passenger commented.

"What are you? My driving instructor? And I didn't forget to set the indicator." Ray sounded mightily annoyed.

Fraser decided to keep his mouth shut, noticing the angry lines around Ray's mouth. There were some things his friend hated the most: criticism concerning his driving and somebody who wanted to damage his car. But the Canadian just couldn't help it. Ray sometimes drove very recklessly and he felt obliged to point it out. But maybe the anger had to do with the cases Vecchio was working on. Two of them were going badly, all evidence dwindling the more he tried to pin down a suspect. Another one had been given to the detectives Huey and Gardino, which hadn't helped to brighten Ray's mood. Fraser, his shift at the Consulate over, had dropped by the precinct and right into the middle of a heated argument between Gardino and Ray. Some of that heat was still radiating from the Italian as he was steering his car down the street, hopping from one emtpy space to another.

Right now they were on their way to interview yet another man who might or might not have seen something in the murder case Ray was chewing on.

"A stop sign, Ray," he said, without really thinking about it, then wishing he could take the comment back. It didn't help Ray if he was constantly criticized.

Ray Vecchio didn't deign the comment with a return answer. He simply kept on driving.

Suddenly the two-way radio crackled and Elaine's voice could be heard. "Vecchio? You there?"

Ray took the micro. "What is it, Elaine?"

"A body has been found at the city garbage dump. The lieutenant wants you get over there and take a look at it."

"The garbage dump?" Ray echoed.

"Yes," the civilian aid confirmed. "One of the workers phoned in a few minutes ago and told us he found it when he was moving some garbage from one place to another."

Vecchio sighed dramatically. "The garbage dump. Great! Why does this always happen when you're around, Fraser?" he asked, not expecting an answer.

"What does a body at the garbage dump have to do with my presence?" Fraser asked a bit perplexed.

"Garbage. Ring a bell? Whenever I'm around you we're sure to end up in some kind of garbage." Ray scowled at a street sign. "Where the heck am I anyway?" he then muttered, then turned the car abruptly.

Fraser was nearly thrown against the door and shot Ray an annoyed look. But the police detective didn't notice. He floored the accelerator, switched on the red flashlight on his dashboard and raced through the traffic.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't a pretty sight and it wasn't only the garbage lying everywhere. It wasn't even the stench. It was the body, half-decayed, but clearly visible between the garbage. Ray tried not to breathe too deeply as he waded over the garbage bags to where some uniformed police officers stood. Fraser followed him, his eyes taking in everything around him. He was followed by a white wolf, which seemed less enthused than its master to walk on the city dump.

"Yo, Vecchio," one of the uniforms called, waving at Ray.

Ray walked over, stepping through some squishy stuff, which he didn't want to know of what it was, especially since some of it stubbornly clung to his foot.

"What do you have?" he asked.

"Male body, " the police officer said. "Must be dead for some time now. One of the employees found it."

Ray glanced at the body and grimaced. The man was stark naked, as far as he could see. The lower part of the body was covered by a large, empty plastic bag. The man's lips were blue and he looked like he had been here for some time, judging from the stench. There were some bruises on his arms and chest. He looked Mexican to Ray, but he wasn't sure. He had black hair, a mustache, dark skin, and there was a scar on his left shoulder.

"Is the coroner on her way?" Vecchio asked, coughing and batting at the flies.

"Yeah. Called her a few minutes ago." With that the uniformed officer resumed his task of trying to find anything that might belong to the body.

"Mexican," Fraser said. He had been standing at Ray's side, curiously examining the body. "25, not older. The bruises look fresh. He must have received them shortly before he died." The Canadian knelt down and frowned a bit.

"Please, Fraser, no tasting or smelling of anything," Ray pleaded. He didn't feel exactly well. "Let's go and wait for the coroner's report, okay?"

But Fraser didn't seem to hear him. He began to lift the garbage bag lying on the body.

"Fraser!"

"Ray, look at that," the Mountie said, not listening to Ray's calls.

Vecchio sighed and peeked under the garbage bag. He choked as he saw the bloody mess under it. "Oh, yeach," he muttered and tried to get away from the body. He had seen a lot in his nine years with the force, but this was over the top. It looked like someone had slaughtered and gutted the man! He didn't see any organs beside the corpse, but that was for the best.

"It looks like someone cut the body open," Fraser said with a curious voice. "You see, there is a long cut from the breast bone all the way down. The skin was peeled back to get at the inner organs."

"Yeah, yeah I can see all of it. Can we go now, please?" The cop was already retreating. This wasn't his idea of an ideal start an investigation and Fraser's neutral statements made him want to get rid of his meager lunch -- right now. How could the Canadian be so calm and ..... cold?

"Of course," Fraser said and stood.

Then he began to walk back to Ray's car, apprently not minding the crunching and squishing noises under his boots, when a whine told him that his wolf did. He turned. Diefenbaker stood in the middle of the garbage dump, looking decidedly unhappy. He whined again.

"No, I won't carry you," Fraser said.

The wolf barked and whined even more.

"What's up, Benny?" Ray called. He had made it to the end of the garbage bags in record time, careful not to stain his pants more than necessary, and was now looking for his partner.

"Diefenbaker doesn't want to walk over the garbage," Fraser explained.

"Wise decision," Ray said with a broad smile.

The white wolf barked again, treading on the spot. Fraser sighed.

"Okay," he said, giving in. "But only this time." He went back to the wolf again and lifted him up.

Diefenbaker growled with pleasure and let himself get carried down the dump. When they had arrived, Fraser put him down, dusting his coat off.

"I hope it won't become a habit," he said sternly.

Ray grinned. He knew the wolf was already spoiled.

"Let's get to the precinct," he then decided, watching the car of the coroner arrive on the spot.

A blonde woman got out of the car, her overall behavior radiating cold professionalism. Dr. Esther Pearson looked around the garbage dump and wrinkled her nose.

"Let's go, Bob," she told one of her assistants, who was carrying a camera. Then she spotted Fraser and Ray. A smile, so completely alien on her face that Ray was always surprised her muscles knew how to move her mouth into a smile, appeared on her face.

"Hello, Constable Fraser," she greeted the dark-haired Mountie.

Fraser returned the smile politely, nodding to her. "Dr. Pearson."

"Esther," she told him. "I thought we had agreed on Esther."

"Ehm, of course."

Amused by the other man's confusion and obvious loss of words, Ray grinned at Pearson, whose face became a professional mask again.

"Detective Vecchio," she simply said, then stalked off toward where the other police officer still waited.

"Nice to meet you, too," Ray called after her, his grin still broad. "Come one, Benny, let's leave these hospital grounds," he then told his friend.

Fraser only nodded and ushered his wolf inside the Buick, then sat down on the passenger seat. Ray pulled the car away from the city dump and accelerated.

"Ray, you forgot to watch for other traffic," Fraser pointed out.

Vecchio just grumbled something under his breath and pointedly took the next corner with more speed than necessary. As Fraser grabbed for the handhold, the Chicagoan police officer couldn't help but grin. He loved to bug the Canadian. He just loved it!

 

* * *

 

Pathology wasn't exactly a place where Ray's favorite hang out was. He hated the strangely smelling, greenish white room with the metal tables and the medical instruments. He hated it even more to look at the bodies. Right now there was only one body, lying on the table in the middle of the room. It was covered by a white sheet and only the feet stuck out from under it. A name and number tag was attached to the big toe of one foot.

Dr. Esther Pearson was just stripping off blood-covered clothes and dumping them into a plastic waste bag. When Ray and Fraser entered she looked up, smiling briefly as she looked at the Mountie. Her face fell again as she discovered Vecchio.

"What can I do for you, detective?" she asked formally, her voice icy. She coldness she projected all around her had earned her the name 'Ice Queen'.

Ray jerked a thumb at the body. "Is that the John Doe from the city dump?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. That's a new one. I did the guy from the city dump an hour ago." Her dark eyebrows arched. "I was expecting you to be here sooner."

"What did you find?" Ray asked, without reacting to her implications.

Pearson walked over to her desk and picked up a folder, tossing it toward Ray. He caught it and glanced at the pages. Fraser looked curiously over his shoulder.

"Male, Mexican, age about 25," he read, frowning as this confirmed Fraser's wild guesses from an hour ago. "Multiple bruises, lacerations and ..." he stared at the words. "His kidneys are missing?"

Pearson nodded. "Both of them were surgically removed. And not only the kidneys. He's missing the heart and the cornea of both eyes, too."

Fraser raised both eyebrows. "Were they removed before or after he died?" he wanted to know.

Ray opened his mouth and closed it again. "Are you suspecting someone did a ritual murder, or what? Removing the inner organs from a still living person? That's disgusting."

"But it is true, detective," Dr. Pearson said pointedly. "This man wasn't dead when his organs and the cornea were removed. No other organs are gone and he's in prime health. There were traces of a sedative or tranquilizer in his blood. Very faint traces, but he was given a drug shortly before he died. I also found the point of entry of the syringe."

"Maybe he was a drug addict," Vecchio suggested.

Pearson gave him a cold look. "There are no traces of old scars which might suggest frequent usage of syringes."

"What about sniffing the stuff? Cocain or something like it?"

"His nose is as clean as everything else, detective Vecchio. No signs of drug usage there either." The pathologist looked like she was telling Ray something he should have known all along.

"Could I please see the body?" Fraser asked politely.

Ray grimaced. "Fraser!" he complained. "You already had a sneak preview at the stiff. Can't you just look at the pictures?"

But the Mountie didn't seem to hear him. Dr. Esther Pearson walked over to one of the drawers, which were used to store the bodies. She pulled it open. The man on the drawer was the man they had found on the dump. He was looking a lot cleaner, but still as dead as before. Fraser lifted the cover that was draped over the body and inspected the large cut, which had opened the lower torso closely.

"I think I'm gonna get sick," Ray muttered, but didn't look away. Fraser must have a stomach of steel, he decided as he saw the mutilated corpse again. It didn't look any better than at the dump.

The victim's skin was whitish grey, the cut slightly red. There was no blood anywhere. Vecchio saw some tiny bite marks at the man's fingers.

"What's that?" he asked and pointed at the marks.

"Rats," Dr. Pearson answered.

"Oh, yuck." Ray grimaced.

"He bled to death?" Fraser asked, still examining the body.

"Correct. He would not have survived the operation anyway, but he was not treated afterwards, just left there to bleed to death. He lost fifty percent of his blood and judging from what I saw at the garbage dump, he lost most of it where he was operated."

"Thank you, Dr. Pearson," Fraser said and dropped the cover over the body again.

"Esther," she corrected him.

The Canadian only gave her a tight smile, the one he gave every woman who came too close for his comfort. He wasn't at all at ease with the personal address. Ray turned on his heals and walked out of Pathology, followed by Fraser. As they went up the stairs to where Ray had his desk, Vecchio couldn't help but teasing his friend.

"Well, what's cooking between you and Dr. Pearson?"

Fraser gave him a look of incomprehension and raised both eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, c'mon, Benny. 'Call me Esther'," he mimicked the pathologist.

"It was just a polite offer to call Dr. Pearson by her first name," the Canadian explained, looking a bit self-conscious.

Ray leered as he eyed his friend. "Yeah, right. Got another date with her?"

"No!"

"Oh, you already had one." It was such fun to see Fraser blush slightly, then turn a shocked face at him.

"Dr. Pearson and I have not had a date, nor will we ever have one, Ray," he explained stiffly.

"Uh-huh, tell me another one, Benny. She's got the hots for you." Vecchio chuckled.

"No, she doesn't," Fraser contradicted. "She merely wants to be friendly."

"Oh, you call it 'being friendly' in Canada," Ray quipped.

They had arrived in the squad room and were walking through the officers in the room toward Ray's desk.

"It's really nothing, Ray," the Mountie tried to convince his friend, but no such luck.

"If you say so." The detective didn't sound like he believed him. His hazel eyes sparkled with amusement. "But the Ice Queen has never been 'just friendly'. And you better watch out. She's Welsh's girl-friend."

"But, Ray ....." Fraser desperately tried to straighten things out. Then he sighed. It was no use.

"What do you think? Ritual murder? Some kind of black cult?" Vecchio's sudden change from friendly teasing to professionalism sometimes surprised Ben.

"No," Fraser answered with conviction.

"No? Why no? They removed the kidneys and the heart for god's sake. Why would anyone want to remove them then, if it wasn't a cult murder?" Ray was already going through a list of cults he'd have to check for similar reports.

"It wasn't a ritual murder, Ray," Fraser insisted.

"I still check it," Ray decided. Fraser's instincts might be correct in 99 percent of all the cases, but there was also the one percent of doubt. "Could also have been some kind of psycho. He killed the poor guy and decided to take the organs along, just for kicks. Must be some kind of freak. That's what I needed. A psycho!" The police detective sighed. "As if we didn't have enough already."

"Yeah, you for instance," a voice said, snickering.

Ray's forehead clouded and a frown appeared as he looked up. Fraser recognized the imminent sign of danger.

"Who asked you, Smarty?" the detective growled.

Detective Louis Gardino, as always dressed in garishly bright and clashing clothes, stopped right in front of his colleague, his eyes and whole persona radiating challenge.

"It's Gardino," he said. "Detective Gardino."

"Nice you know your name, Smarty. Next time you get lost you can tell people to get you back to your mommy," Ray shot back.

Fraser rose, ready to intervene if things got too hot for Ray -- or Detective Gardino.

"You wouldn't even know how to solve a case if it weren't for the Mountie," Gardino returned with a sneer. "You're a looser, Vecchio. I hope the lieutenant comes to realize it and takes this case away from you. But then again, you've always been fond of garbage, weren't you?"

Ray's face flushed in anger and Fraser stepped in -- as did Gardino's partner Huey.

"That's enough, Louis," the black man said, pulling his colleague away from him.

Ray wanted to follow the two, but a firm hand on his shoulder kept him back. Serious blue eyes looked at him.

"Let it go, Ray," Fraser said, shaking his head.

Ray snorted. "We'll see who's the looser," he growled and then stomped to his desk.

The Canadian sighed softly. Gardino had hit a very sensitive nerve with his comment and Ray had nearly flipped at it. Ray did not only hate it when his driving was criticized or his car was damaged, he also hated being called a looser -- or dependant. They walked over to the desk which was Ray's and sat down. Vecchio began rearranging his papers with angry moves, not noticing how Fraser watched him with worried eyes from the opposite side of the desk.

"I don't think it was some kind of freak murderer," the Mountie finally said, steering the conversation back to their former topic and hoping that Ray would too.

Ray stopped in what he was doing and looked at his friend. "What? First you say it isn't a cult. Now you say it isn't a psycho. Who was it, if I may ask?"

"I don't know yet, Ray."

"Then what leads you to your assumptions, huh? A crystal ball? Tarot cards? Mountie instincts?"

Fraser leaned forward, spreading his hands in an explanative gesture. "The kidneys were removed very professionally, Ray, as was the heart. If a cult had slaughtered the man to sacrifice him to some kind of deity, they wouldn't have gone to all that trouble to anesthetize him and then cut him open as precisely as this. And kidneys don't hold any religious meaning in a black cult. They mostly use the heart or the brain."

"They did remove the heart, Fraser," Ray pointed out, not letting go of his theory of a cult.

"Yes, but not exclusively. They also removed the cornea, something no known cult has ever done. Removing the cornea surgically requires a lot of finesse, not to damage it."

"Oh, yeach," Ray commented. "What if this deity wants people to cut others open like this? I mean, there are gods worshipped no one has ever heard of and one might have 'remove thy victims kidneys and cornea' as a commandment. And maybe it's a cult with a medic who knows how to do it."

"Unlikely."

"And you're the oh-so-wise expert on occult and ritual murders, are you?" Vecchio asked sarcastically, shuffling papers again.

"I witnessed an Inuit ritual once," Fraser began. "Of course they didn't use people as sacrifice, but no occult or ritual sacrifice is done like that. It's too precise. The cuts are too clean."

"You were at a ritual sacrifice?" Ray asked, incredulous. "That's disgusting!"

"No, it isn't. The old Inuit still honor their gods and pray to them to give the tribe plenty of food and help them in their daily struggle for survival." Fraser looked like this was the most common thing in the world -- a ritual sacrifice of an animal to praise or pray to a god.

"It's disgusting, that's what it is." Vecchio grimaced, imagining an animal cadaver, cut open and bleeding while wildly dancing men and women praised their god. "But still: why do you think it isn't a psycho?"

"If it had been a psycho, the man would have used a normal knife, not a scalpel. And he, too, wouldn't have removed the kidneys. You don't get access to the kidneys that easily."

"And who," Ray asked patiently, but with a definite note of sarcasm, "do you think did it? And what makes you believe it was done with a scalpel?"

"I 'm not sure yet who it might have been, but it is easy to distinguish that it was done with a scalpel. The cut is too clean to be from a normal knife. A knife leaves ragged edges at the wound, because it's not as thin and clean as a scalpel, especially when administering such a long cut. I'm sure Dr. Pearson's report will show that my theory is correct." Fraser lifted both eyebrows and nodded at the folder.

"Oh, you mean 'Please-call-me-Esther'?" Ray grinned at the sour expression on the other man's face, but looked at the report. After some reading he stared at the Canadian. "Scalpel," he muttered. "Probably a damn scalpel."

Fraser smiled, but not in triumph, merely pleased with himself.

"Okay, wonder boy, so it was done with a scalpel. It doesn't tell us who did it and why, or who that dead guy is."

"Of course not. But it tells us that the operation was done by a professional, not some amateur like in a cult. He cut the skin like a doctor does like in an authopsy."

"That really helps, Benny. I'll just go to Elaine, tell her to print me all medics in this small town and then we'll drive from address to address and question them. 'Excuse me, Doc, but did you perform an illegal operation lately and sold some pieces of your patient to the organ mafia?'"

The Canadian frowned. "Whoever removed the body parts was possibly not a registered doctor. No one with a good going practice or a place in a hospital would do such a thing."

"Maybe in Canada. Let me tell you once again: this is America." Vecchio shook his head in exasperation. "I'm gonna see what Elaine has brought up on the finger prints," he muttered and walked over to the civilian aid.

The dark-skinned and dark-haired woman looked up as the two men came over to her desk, smiling brightly at Fraser.

"Hey, Fraser," she greeted him. "How are things going?"

Fraser smiled politely. "Fine."

"Elaine," Vecchio broke in. "Anything on the fingerprints?"

Elaine kept on looking at the Mountie. "I ran the prints through the computer. No success. This guy has never been arrested."

"What about missing persons?" Ben wanted to know.

"Nope. Dead end, too. No report has been filed with a missing man fitting this description." She shrugged.

Ray and Fraser traded a look. That wasn't very positive news, not at all.

"I think we should talk to the officer who was called to the body," the Canadian finally said.

Ray simply shrugged. Whatever they did, it could just get better.

"Thank you, Elaine," Fraser thanked the civilian aid and she smiled again.

"Yeah, thanks," Ray grumbled, privately wondering what it was that made women react like they did when they met Fraser. Maybe it was the uniform, he mused. Yes, definitely the uniform. His brother-in-law was hot for one of the things since he found out that his wife Maria had an eye on the Mountie.

"What is the name of the officer?" Ben asked and jerked Ray out of his thoughts.

"Sergeant Rob Morris," Ray said, remembering the face of the man who had greeted them at the city dump. "We'll have a look at the duty roaster and then try to find him."

 

*

 

Sergeant Rob Morris was a man in his late fifties with partly grey hair and lively, blue eyes. He was sitting in a coffee shop, sipping some coffee and eating a donut.

"The body? Oh, yeah, the dead guy at the city dump. Gruesome thing, that."

Fraser nodded. "Yes. We have some more questions about it."

"Fire away." Morris grinned and bit into his donut. The find of the partly decayed body hadn't shaken his appetite a bit, Ray thought.

"Where was the body found?"

"You mean where at the dump?" When the Mountie nodded, Morris went on. "Somewhere close to the garbage mincer."

"Is there a hint to which garbage truck might have dropped its cargo, and with it the body, at that place?"

The cop shook his head. "No. The stuff which lies there is ready to be chopped in very small pieces and then dumped farther away. The trucks, which leave their cargo at the dump, are stopped further along and are directed to very specific place. That's where they leave the garbage and then return to the streets." Morris shrugged. "Simple."

"Yes, but if the body wasn't brought by a truck, it must have been dumped by someone else." Fraser frowned a bit. "How is the dump secured?"

"Secured?" The sergeant stared at him. "Secure a garbage dump?"

"He's Canadian," Ray put in as if that would explain everything.

Morris looked more closely at Fraser. "Oh. Well, you see, there is nothing to secure at a garbage dump. Not really. They have a perimeter fence, but mostly to tell the employees where to stop dumping the garbage." Morris grinned.

"Do they have security guards?" Ray wanted to know. "Anyone who has an eye on the dump?"

"Sure. There are some guys running around and looking out that no kids sneak onto the premises. But nothing professionally."

Fraser looked thoughtful and Ray recognized that look. Something was going in that Mountie brain and he intended to find out.

"Thank you very much, sergeant," the Canadian said and stood, shaking Morris' hand.

Morris smiled, nodding at Ray. "Nice guy, your friend," he remarked to the detective as Fraser turned to go.

"Yeah," was all Ray said and followed the Mountie.

 

*

 

"Okay, what's going on, Fraser?" Ray asked as they went back to the Buick.

Fraser gave him an inquisitive look. "Come again?"

"What are you thinking about? You've gotta clue, don't you? I know that look on your face. You're thinking of something."

"I'm thinking of organ trade, Ray."

"What?" The Chicagoan stared at him.

"Organ trade. Someone removed the victim's kidneys, heart and cornea, then dumped him somewhere, where he thought the body would disappear forever. Unluckily someone found the corpse and called the police."

"Organ trade? Fraser, that's ridiculous!" Then again, Ray contemplated silently to himself, maybe not. The business bloomed and though he hadn't encountered an organ dealer himself, he knew that the Milwaukee P.D. had recently busted a whole organ trade operation. Some of the dealers had escaped, but would they go to Chicago?

"The man we found was missing both some very important organs and parts of his body. He's of Mexican origin and not tied to this town as far as we know. No one filed a missing person report on him. He's in prime health and the organs were surgically removed, not ripped out or slaughtered. He was sedated or tranquilized before the operation was performed and then carried to the garbage dump. Whoever removed the inner organs didn't want him to show up anywhere."

It did sound logical, Vecchio decided. "But he did show up," he nevertheless reminded Fraser.

He nodded. "By accident. The body was not masterfully hidden, since someone found it that early. Following the pathology report and the state of decay the body was in, he has been at the dump for only a few days."

"Let's say it is organ trade, how do we wanna prove it? There's no record on the man, no file, no fingerprints. He has no name, no passport, no nothing. He was found stark naked. We don't have a single lead."

"We have."

They had arrived at the car and Ray was just opening the doors. Fraser leaned over the roof, folding his hands.

"We have?" Ray echoed.

"We know that the man who did the operation is someone with a medical background."

"We already went through that, Fraser. Even if we narrow it down to pathologists, I can't just arrest all of them in the whole damn city. Welsh will have me fired if I pull a stunt like that." Ray shook his head. "Just face it, we don't have a lead. I can't go to the lieutenant, telling him that we inspected the corpse and then decided he was killed by organ dealers. He'll get a fit."

Fraser had to agree. They needed evidence.

Both men got into the car and Vecchio let the car roll onto the street, then accelerated and took the next corner with slightly more speed than necessary. It got him an annoyed look from Fraser, but the Mountie didn't say a thing. Ray allowed himself a satisfied smile.

"Listen," he said after a minute of silence, which he couldn't bear any longer. "I'll see what my contacts know about organ trade in Chicago. I'll set Elaine on it and we can search for someone with a connection. But that's all I can do. If we don't come up with anything, the case is closed. Another murder, another file. I have two cases with a handful of suspects or possible witnesses, more than we have in this case. I can't work on something where we nothing but wobbly theories, hunches and no hard evidence. Okay?"

He glanced at his passenger. Fraser didn't look happy, but he nodded.

"Okay."

 

* * *

 

The shadowy figure whisked through the dark Chicagoan alley and stopped in front of a t-crossing, looking around the corner. When there was no one suspicious within his sight, he stepped onto the street, hurrying down towards an old apartment building. Two hobos sat in front of the entrance of the building, looking completely out of it. One had sunken down on the sidewalk, snoring softly, the second one was staring at the street. Both didn't react to the figure entering the house.

Inside the shadow looked at the name plates on the post boxes. Finding the right one it hurried up the stairs, trying not to make any noise. As it arrived on the right door it took a letter out of its coat pocket and shoved it through under the door. There was a noise like nails on a tile floor and the figure fled.

 

* * *

 

"Okay, we have a name and we have an address," Ray announced, walking over to the single, occupied table in the day-room of the precinct. Except for the self-service machines there was no one here. It was late in the evening and the night shift was just starting. Benton Fraser sat at the table in the middle of the room and was studying the pathology report again. He had done that more than once and Ray wondered what he was trying to find. As Ray entered, he looked up.

"Frank Carter, known dealer for everything that's into big money. He changed his business a few years ago and was arrested more than ten times for suspected dealing with organs. We could never prove anything and he was always set free. He's also known for getting illegal aliens over the border. No proof either. He got a whole bunch of friends in high places and it's very hard to attach a crime to him" Vecchio shrugged and gave Fraser the report. "Carter disappeared a few months ago. No trace of him."

The Canadian took the single, printed sheet and studied it as intently as the pathology report. Then he looked up at Ray.

"No information from my contacts on the street," Vecchio continued. "They are either not talking or simply denying ever having heard of such a word as organ trade."

Fraser raised both eyebrows. "They are afraid," he said.

The detective shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe they just don't want to talk. Either way we're back to square one."

"Not exactly." Fraser pointed at the sheet of paper. "It says here that Carter owned a warehouse and it was never sold to anyone. It's still empty."

"You think it's Carter? The guy's not in town, Fraser."

"Says the report. But he might have come back and no one knows it. Or no one wants to talk about it." The Mountie stood. "We should check it out."

"Fraser," Vecchio complained. "It's late! Go home, get some sleep and then come back tomorrow. We'll check it out tomorrow. I still have a report to type and some things to follow up in another case."

Ben nodded, knowing that he might be able to convince Ray to do it, but the other man would be unbearable for the next hours. And he would most likely nod off while they were watching the warehouse.

"We'll go there first thing tomorrow," Ray repeated. "I'll pick you up and then we drive over."

"I have an early shift, Ray."

"Then I'll see what I can find out about the warehouse when I'm through with the other stuff, check it out and come and get you after your shift."

"Okay." The Canadian picked up his hat and, accompanied by his Chicagoan friend, left the precinct.

 

* * *

 

When Ray stopped his car in front of the apartment building Fraser lived in, the Mountie was already standing on the sidewalk, waiting for him. He was dressed in his red uniform. He opened the Buick's door and got in. Both men met regularly for breakfast and this, though he had an early shift, was one of the times. As Ray pulled away from the sidewalk, Fraser held up an envelope.

"I found this yesterday evening. Somebody slid it through under my door," the dark-haired man said.

Ray glanced at the piece of paper. "What is it? Love letter? Invitation for the local neighborhood meeting of the Boy Scouts?"

"No. It's an anonymous letter from someone who wants us to help them."

"Them? Who's them?" Ray evaded a taxi and threw the cabbie a dirty look.

"I don't know. But whoever wrote the letter wants us to check out the warehouse # 29 of the industrial harbor." Fraser looked over at the driver. "It is Frank Carter's warehouse, the one that was never sold."

Vecchio snatched the letter as he stopped at a red traffic light and read it. "So?"

"So I thought you might want to check it out."

The detective sighed, not even trying to voice his protest or put up a word fight. "Okay, okay, I'll check it out." After all, it was a logical way to proceed. Check out the warehouse, look for possible evidence, then report back.

"Could you please take Diefenbaker with you for today?" Fraser suddenly asked.

"What?" Ray nearly stepped on the brakes.

"Willie can't come over today and I have to pick up some things for the consulate and can't take him along. And he can't stay at the office in the consulate either." A pair of blue eyes looked pleadingly at Ray.

The police officer sighed dramatically. "Why me? Why's it always me? You know I can't get along with dogs, Benny!"

"Diefenbaker is no dog."

"Wolfs are even worse."

There was a growl, transforming into a bark, from the back seats.

"Don't bark at me from behind," Ray growled. "And don't drool on my padding! It's bad enough you leave your hair all over it!"

"It's only for today," Fraser went on, ignoring Ray's angry outburst.

"Okay, okay, I'll take him along," Vecchio gave in. "You owe me for this one, Fraser," he added in a mutter.

Fraser smiled, saying nothing. Most of Ray's complaints were automatic and he would never have agreed to take the wolf with him it were really bothering him as much as he said.

"Here you are." Ray stopped the car in front of the consulate. "Have fun," he added sarcastically as the Mountie got out of the Buick.

When Fraser had closed the door he drove off again, steering toward the precinct. He had a warehouse to check out.

 

* * *

 

"Get your nose out of my donut box!" Ray cried and jerked the box from the passenger seat, thereby spilling his coffee. "See what you've done?" He wiped inefficiently at his jacket.

Diefenbaker growled, then whined, looking intently at the donut in the box. It was the last of half a dozen and Ray had not shared them with the wolf. Now he was intent on getting the last, chocolate covered one.

"No way, wolf! It's my donut! Fraser'll hang me if he finds out."

A whine.

"No, he will find out. He's a Mountie." Vecchio hid the box under his seat, then looked back at the warehouse again. He had been here for the better half of the morning, watching the traffic at the harbor. No one had entered the warehouse, no one had left it. It was boring and Ray cursed himself for the hundredth time for promising Fraser to look at the warehouse. After a quick visit to the precinct and a nervebending conversation with Elaine to give him everything she had about warehouse # 29, he had driven to the harbor area. He had reported in his position and that he was staking the warehouse out. At least now Welsh couldn't say that he wasn't working on a case, though it wasn't the case the lieutenant wanted him to work on.

Warehouse # 29 had been rented to Frank Carter five years ago. He paid the rent for the next ten years to come -- ten years! -- and since he had left town, nothing had happened there. As far as the harbor administration was concerned, nothing was stored in the warehouse and it had been closed for use after Carter was gone. No one knew who had locked the thing and no one had tried to find out. After all, it had been paid in advance.

Diefenbaker was getting restless on the back seat, wanting that donut. Ray gave an exasperated sigh and got out the box again, giving the chocolate donut to the wolf, who lay down on the seat immediately, happily chewing on the sweets.

That was the moment a truck drove up the harbor road, slowing down and then steering toward the warehouse Ray was observing. The until now tightly closed doors opened and the truck disappeared inside. Then the doors closed again. Vecchio frowned, placing his cup of luke warm coffee on the dashboard and then getting out of the car. Now things had gotten interesting. Diefenbaker, still chewing on the donut, looked up, then decided to accompany his master's friend.

The police detective ran over to the warehouse, keeping in the early morning shadows between the warehouse # 29 and # 28. Everything was very quiet around here, since none of the immediate neighborhood storage rooms were used or in use. The only sounds came over from the once which were further along the road. Finding a window, Ray stretched to look inside. The window was smeared with dirt and something oily, but it was still clear enough to allow Ray to peak inside.

The truck he had seen drive in the warehouse was parked right in the middle of the large building. The driver had got out and was now walking to the rear of the trailer, opening it. He yelled something and then someone crawled out of the trailer. Ray's eyes widened as he saw the frightened and confused looking group of men and women, huddling together and staring at their new surroundings with fear. The driver shooed them over to an area behind the truck, which Ray couldn't see.

"I'll be ...." he muttered.

Those men and women had been Mexican, just like the corpse. And they had been brought here in bright daylight! No one would even start to guess that someone would smuggle people inside a trailer to Chicago by day. Such actions were normally done in the middle of the night. If those people where illegal aliens ... He had to contact the precinct.

Diefenbaker's deep growl alerted him. He turned, coming face to face with an unpleasant and unfriendly looking man in jeans and baseball jacket. The man was carrying a revolver, which was aimed at him. Ray's thoughts whirled. Both men stared at each other and Ray's hands wandered closer to his back, where he had his weapon. Then, without any warning at all, the man fired his weapon. Ray's eyes had seen the trigger finger move and he reacted instinctively, letting himself fall to the side. A shot rang through the silence of the warehouse district, followed by a cry of pain.

The wolf barked, his fur rising up on his back as the man with the gun came over. The man aimed his gun at the wolf.

"Run, Dief!" Ray cried -- and the wolf obeyed. Like a white flash he disappeared around the corner.

The man aimed his weapon at the animal, but didn't shoot. Instead he yelled, "Get the dog!"

Ray, lying on the ground, saw two men run past him, both armed. They wouldn't get the wolf. He knew they wouldn't. Someone jerked him around, so that he was lying on his back. The movement jarred his side and he couldn't bite back a yelp of pain. The man searched him, coming up with his badge and his additional weapon, the one he kept strapped to his foot.

"A cop," he said. "The boss will like that." An icy smile played around his lips as he pressed the barrel of the gun against Ray's throat. "But maybe I should not trouble him with that, what do you think?"

Ray felt sweat on his face. He was afraid, terribly afraid. It wasn't the first time he had a gun pressed against his neck, but this time there was no partner around to help him. The man shrugged, looking a bit disappointed.

"Well, I'll let the boss decide." He took Ray's handcuffs, rolled Ray back on his stomach, which made the detective groan again, and secured his hands behind his back. Then he pulled him up on his feet. Vecchio gasped, nearly doubling over again. His left side just about the hip felt like on fire and from the all over feel he guessed the bullet had gone through, exiting on the other side. He could also feel the blood he was loosing trickle down on his skin, soaking his shirt.

He was shoved through a side entrance into the warehouse, the man being as rough as he could. They crossed the large hall and then came up to what seemed to be a little office. But instead of entering the office, as Ray had thought, the man pulled him over to a trap door. He opened the trap door and then shoved him down some pretty rotten looking stairs. Vecchio stumbled and fell on his knees, doubling over, gasping with pain and nearly loosing consciousness. A loud bang from overhead told him that the trapdoor was closed again. He was alone.

After what seemed to be a very long time he felt the pain retreat a bit. He tried not try to breathe to deeply and not to move too much. Instead he tried to find out what kind of room he was in. It was not completely dark, but more twilightish. The light came through the ceiling, which was made out of wooden planks, just like the trapdoor. The room he was in was very narrow, but long. And it wasn't very high. If he stood up and stretched, he might be able to reach the ceiling. Well, if ..... Ray felt unable to even move a finger. The pain had numbed him, made his mind a bit fuzzy, but he battled unconsciousness as best as he could.

He heard foot steps from above, then voices. He strained his ears and heard two or three men.

"He's gone," one man said.

"Doesn't matter," the second one, the one who had shot him, answered. "The cop's in the storage. Let's get the cattle going. The doc's waiting eagerly for the next shot." He laughed and the others followed, laughing too. "And tell the boss we have a slight problem here," he added. Then the steps went away, the voices fading.

 _They're going to kill them right now_ , Ray realized, a sick feeling in his stomach. He had to do something! But to do anything he had to get his hands free -- or at least as free as he could. He moved a bit, biting his lip as pain lanced through him.

"Damnit!" he whispered hoarsely.

He had to move his arms from behind him to his front. This meant a lot of movement -- and a lot of pain. Wriggling and twisting he managed to get his arms into the right position. Sweat glistened on his forehead and tears of pain stood in his eyes. He had to make it. He had to. Determinedly he went on, curling himself into a ball and then, finally sliding his arms over his back into the crook of his knees. The cuffs were biting into his wrists, but this pain was minor to the one radiating from his side. With a last effort of will and adrenaline he managed to get his legs through the circle of his arms.

Panting and dizzy with pain and nausea Vecchio just lay there, the world a blur around him, the pain gone from his conscious mind as he was slipping into a welcome numbness of black. He no longer had any power to fight it. He lost consciousness.

 

* * *

 

The two women aimed their cameras at the motionlessly standing man in the red dress uniform and snapped a picture.

"Go one," the dark-haired woman with the shoulder length hair encouraged her friend. "Stand beside him and I'll take a picture of you."

The woman with the light brown, short hair walked self-consciously over to the RCMP officer, who didn't seem to be aware of them. He was staring straight ahead, his whole body rigid, appearing like a statue. Only the blinking of his eyes told her that he was really alive. She walked up right next to him and then turned toward the camera.

"Smile!" the other one called.

Another picture was taken.

"Thank you," she said to the Mountie, but got no answer in return. He simply kept on staring straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back.

"Your turn, Suzanne," the brown haired woman told her friend and they switched places.

And another picture was taken.

"Come on, Miria. We still got a whole program ahead!" Suzanne said to her friend. Together they walked down the street.

A white flash ran up the same street, stopping in front of the motionless man, whining and barking.

No reaction.

Diefenbaker growled, then started to lick Fraser's hand.

Again no reaction.

He whined again, this time more desperate, taking a piece of the dress uniform between his teeth and trying to pull the Mountie away from the consulate.

The only reaction was a rapid blinking of the blue eyes, something a close watcher and someone who knew Benton Fraser would have interpreted as puzzlement or confusion. But he still stood rock-steady.

Then the clock of a near-by church chimed and all of a sudden the man turned alive. End of shift.

"Diefenbaker!"

The white wolf whined again, then barked, running a bit down the street, then stopping to turn back and bark again. Fraser was deeply disturbed. Dief should have been with Ray. And Ray should have come here to pick him up, just as they had arranged this morning. Now Diefenbaker was here, anxious and nervous, while Ray was not. He hoped that his fears would prove to be completely unfounded.

 

* * *

 

He didn't want to come back. Coming back meant pain, and he didn't want to feel pain. But consciousness dragged remorselessly at him, pushing him further and further away from the numbing blackness. Blinking, he opened his eyes, squinting into the twilight around him. For a second he was confused, not knowing where he was. All he knew was the pain in his side, the fire burning there. Then his memories returned and he closed his eyes again. After another minute of just lying there, motionless and breathing as flatly as possible, Ray opened his eyes again. Everything was still the same around him. No bad dream then.

He tried to move a bit and found the pain bearable enough to get up into a sitting position. Then he staggered to his feet, biting back a groan as pain lanced through him, making him dizzy and nauseous.

"Shit!" he whispered, pressing his still cuffed hands against his left side, coming away wet and sticky. There was a sizable red stain on his shirt, which wasn't very encouraging. The only good sign was the fact that he could still think clearly. Maybe he hadn't lost too much blood.

Suddenly he heard a noise. It was the noise of the trap door opening. Someone stepped down the stairs, from the sound of it at least two people.

"Well, well, well, a cop," a voice Ray didn't recognize said mockingly.

He blinked and willed his eyes to fix on a tall, dark-haired man in a business suit. His fuzzy brain made a connection between the man and the picture of Frank Carter he had seen on the computer screen.

"You're in big trouble, Carter," he whispered through the pain.

"Oh, I'm so scared, detective. I really am. Can you see me shivering?" The man laughed coldly. "Who else knows about us?"

"Everyone. The whole Chicagoan police force will be after you if I won't report in," Ray coughed.

"Are we telling the truth, detective?" Carter sang, still grinning. "Because I don't believe you. You're working alone, aren't you?"

"Go to hell!" the police officer suggested.

Frank Carter leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering icily. "One day maybe, but you'll be there first."

"Whaddya want us to do with him, boss?" the man who had shot Ray asked.

"Oh, I think we'll keep him here for the time being. Get ready to load the cargo into the truck and leave when we're done with the last of the merchandise. I want this warehouse to be clean. Then dump his body with the others."

"The police will get you," Ray insisted, biting down his lower lip to keep from moaning in pain as his injury made itself felt again.

Carter grinned. "Oh, no, they won't. I have enough friends in important places. I'm safe. You're the one who should worry, detective. You will be dead in a few hours, while we are on our way out of here." Carter turned and gestured to the other man to follow him.

Ray heard the trap door close again and closed his eyes. He felt lost and weary, wanting to just give up, surrender to the pain. But there was a small, stubborn and very insistent voice in his head.

 _You want to give up? Okay, give up! As you always do!_

 _No, I'm not always giving up!_ he protested.

 _Tell me another one. You're a looser, Vecchio! I always told you, you wouldn't get far!_

He gritted his teeth, fighting the feeling of being alone and lost, being on his own.

 _You've always been on your own, right? You're a loner. Now get your act together, Vecchio! There is a way out of here!_

He opened his eyes again, his vision still blurry. With an effort, Ray managed to sit. Then he tried standing. it was nearly too much for him. Half walking, half staggering he went over to the stairs to the trap door, while colorful spots danced in front of his eyes. He climbed up, trying the door and found it shut. _Would have been too easy_ , he thought dryly. The trap door was made out of wooden planks, which appeared old and had some slits and holes in it. Through one hole he discovered that the door was locked by a simple metal bolt, stuck through a loop. If he could loosen the bolt and slide it through the loop ..... Yes, if. The room he was in was completely empty, except for him, and he wasn't carrying anything remotely useable to help him get out of here.

"I bet Fraser would have found a way out," he muttered, settling back onto the stairs, hands pressed against the seeping wound.

The thought of the Mountie brought back what had happened ... how long ago? He glanced at his watch. If he was right, he had been unconscious for about one hour. One hour ago Diefenbaker had taken off in flight and Vecchio hoped that he had gone straight for the consulate and Fraser.

He leaned his head against the wall and felt himself drifting off. He couldn't say how long he had been in that state of semi-awareness when he heard scraping sounds. Then someone stepped across the wooden planks above him. A shadow fell over him. Ray looked up, squinting, discovering a figure above him.

"You police?" the figure, a woman, asked, her speech heavy accented and barely decipherable. She sounded scared and like she had cried recently.

"Yes," he whispered. "Who are you?" He couldn't really see anything except for her shadow.

She turned her head and Ray thought he saw dark hair falling over her shoulders. She seemed to be scanning the warehouse.

"Help me out of here, please. Remove the bolt." He hoped he had put enough pleading into his voice to convince her. His mind told him that she probably was one of the illegals and more than likely afraid of the police.

"You police," she said again. "I help, you arrest. Make go back to Mexico."

"No," he said intently. "I want to help you to become free again. These men are killing your friends. They're not going to help you out of here."

There was a short silence.

"We make deal," the woman then said. "I help you, you help me. Promise?"

He nodded. "Yes, I'll promise to help you. I'll get you and your friends out of this slaughterhouse."

"We not want to go back to Mexico," she insisted. "Stay here."

Ray chewed his lower lip. He didn't like lying to her. If they would get out of this situation alive, she and her friends would be brought back to Mexico. They had come here illegally.

"I'll help you in any way I can," he whispered. "Please open the door."

There were angry voices. The woman got nervous and made moves to flee.

"Remove the bolt. Help me!" Ray begged urgently, but then she was gone.

A cry of fear and tear-filled words in an unknown language echoed through the store house, then there was a noise like someone slapping someone else. A man's voice barked a command and the cries turned into sobs.

"Sonofabitch," Ray cursed, identifying the noises as what they were.

A door slammed, then there was only silence. He sank back against the stairs again. He was trapped, handcuffed and injured. And he was loosing blood. Nobody knew he was here, except for a white, deaf wolf, and he didn't know if Fraser was able to find him. Closing his eyes he drifted off into semi-consciousness.

 

* * *

 

Benton Fraser stood behind the green Buick and watched the warehouse. Everything was peaceful and quiet. Diefenbaker sat at his side, tongue lolling out of his snout, like him watching the building. The wolf had led him here as fast as the Mountie had been able to follow. Since running all the way here would have been murder, they had had to walk from time to time, Diefenbaker displaying a worrisome nervousness. Something was wrong with Ray, Fraser had decided. Why else should the white wolf behave like this?

It had taken him longer than anticipated to get to the warehouse district. He had guessed where they were going, but had decided against taking a cab. He had found Ray's car easily, which was parked on the other side of the warehouse, looking somehow inconspicious. He had also found the empty donut box and the now cold coffee. If he was a judge of the situation, Ray had left in a hurry, since the coffee cup was still more or less full.

Fraser walked over to the warehouse, followed by Diefenbaker. Carefully he began to look around, trying to find something suspicious. And he found a brownish red stain, half dried, on the ground close to a window.  A stained metallic object lay not far away from the dried fluid. Diefenbaker gave a whine, looking intently at his friend. Fraser knelt down and touched the stain carefully. It hadn't dried such a long time ago and it was clearly blood. And the metallic object was a bullet, equally stained with dried blood. A sick feeling spread through him. Had Ray been shot or had he shot someone else and had been captured afterwards? He stood up again and looked through the smeared window, like Ray discovering a truck parked in the middle of the storage are. And it didn't look like the truck had been here for a very long time. The Canadian walked over to a door and tried the door handle. To his surprise the door was locked. Carefully he entered the warehouse.

The inside was large, looked well kept and except for the truck there was no sign of anyone. Still careful, Fraser began to look around. There were two doors at the far side of the room, leading to small cubicles, one looking like another storage room, one like an office. Just as he was walking over to the office, he heard voices. He dived for cover behind the truck, then rolling down under it. Diefenbaker had disappeared to somewhere else and Fraser was not worried about him. The wolf could take care of himself. He heard a door open, then there were voices.

"Get the body over to the dump," a male voice commanded. "Then get the next one to the doctor. We're expecting a new transport tomorrow evening and I want them all out of here by then."

Someone agreed and Fraser could see two pairs of feet walking by the truck toward the trailer. They opened the back door and threw something heavy inside. Then he heard the door close again.

"When's the next pick-up?" another voice asked.

"This evening. Get the fridges over to the door and make sure they're hooked up to the generator until the pick-up takes place."

"What about the police?" someone else asked.

"Don't worry about the cop. We'll take care of him when we're done with the cattle," the first man said coldly.

"Someone told me that the cops found a body at the dump," the second man said, sounding a bit frightened. "What if they draw the right conclusions? We already had one of them sneak around here."

"Don't worry about that," a new, cultivated sounding voice told the man. New foot steps could be heard and Fraser now saw four pair of feet standing close to him. "I will take care of that, no problem. You just get the merchandise ready, I'll arrange the transport and the safety. What about the woman?"

"We had some fun with her," the second voice answered with a disgustingly pleased voice. "She got out of the room, but we found her again. No problem."

"Be more careful when you play," the first man advised. "She's merchandise. Don't damage anything we might need."

The steps faded and the voices, too. Fraser strained a bit more and heard a door close. The sick feeling in his stomach had not receded, simply intensified. Those men were referring to the illegal aliens as 'merchandise' and they were obviously having their fun with the female illegal aliens. Emotions welled up inside of him and he concentrated on surpressing his anger. He had to stay cool. Ray was in trouble, as far as he had heard from the brief conversation.

Fraser rolled out from under the trailer and walked over to its back door, peeking inside. What he saw made him feel sick again. There was a body in there. It was a man, late twenties, his torso cut open just like the they had seen on the corpse at the dump. Kidneys, heart and maybe the corneas, too, Fraser thought. Closing the doors again he went cautiously over to the far side of the warehouse, where he had heard the steps disappear.

Beside the door to the office cubicle where two metal crates. They were hooked to what looked like a generator. Curious, he opened the boxes and looked inside. What he saw made his stomach clench. Inner organs. There were a pair of kidneys stored between dry ice. He guessed that the second box contained the heart. Cautiously closing the lid of the box again he stood, looking around. He had two options: either look inside the office or the other room. He eavesdropped at both doors and heard no noises behind the office door. He made a decision.

The Canadian opened the door to the office and peered inside. There was a small desk with a typewriter on it close to the entrance door. A chair stood beside it. A part of the room was shut off from the rest of the office by a plastic curtain. He walked over and pulled it back. Behind the curtain was another desk, a medical examination table, standing over what looked like a large, metal tray with a siphon. There were several medical instruments lined up on a moveable tray.

"Who are you?" The question was posed by a sickly pale looking man with large shadows under his eyes, wearing a lab coat and a pair of glasses. To Fraser he looked like he hadn't slept for a long, long time, judging from the red eyes and the nervous movements.

"My name is Constable Benton Fraser," he introduced himself. "And who are you?"

"I dunno," the man muttered, shaking hands grabbing for a small, unlabeled bottle with a golden liquid. It smelled like alcohol.

"You are a doctor?" the Mountie asked.

The laughed humorlessly. "A doctor? That's the best joke I've heard for a long time. I was a doctor, no ... now, now I'm nothing." He gave Fraser a tired look. "What are you doing here?"

"I am here to stop you," the dark-haired man said truthfully.

"Oh." The doctor shrugged. "I don't care."

"You are killing innocent people. Your actions are highly illegal."

A wry grin passed over the thin lips of the man in the lab coat. "Tell me something new. But if you are in need, you do anything." He shrugged again.

Fraser looked at the bottle of alcohol and understood. "I have to ask you to stop what you are doing. You are under arrest."

"My pleasure, Mr. Fraser, I won't go anywhere." He sank back on a chair, his eyes glazed, taking a new swing of alcohol. Then he closed his eyes and started to hum.

Benton Fraser felt sorry for the stranger. He had been a victim, just like the illegal aliens. He had been bought with alcohol, the Mexicans with the promise of freedom. But he had still done something illegal. He had killed at least two people.

Leaving the doctor sitting where he was, Fraser left the office. Diefenbaker met him at the door, looking a bit nervous and anxious.

"What is it, Dief?" he asked.

The wolf ran over to a specific point of the floor and growled. Fraser frowned as he discovered a trap door in the ground. A whine and scraping noises made him look down. Diefenbaker was clawing at the door, whining softly. He placed one hand on the wolf's neck to quiet him down. If the men heard him, they might come looking. He still didn't know where they had gone.

Diefenbaker went on scraping his paws on the door. Fraser removed the bolt from the notch and carefully lifted the trapdoor. Squinting into the semi darkness he discovered a big lump lying at the foot of the stairs. Diefenbaker barked and jumped down the stairs, and that was the second the Canadian realized just whom he was looking at.

"Ray!" he exclaimed, but not loud enough to be heard. Quickly he followed the wolf, closing the door after himself, but taking the bolt to lock it along.

Ray Vecchio didn't react to his exclamation. He lay motionlessly on the floor. Fraser touched his Chicagoan friend's shoulder, then turned him carefully on his back. Ray's hands were cuffed and his clothes looked dirty. Then he discovered the blood on the shirt.

"Oh, no," he whispered, carefully pulling away the jacket and trying to determine how bad it was. Judging from the equally stained back of the jacket, the shot had gone straight through. He remembered the bullet he had found outside.

"Ray?" he asked softly.

There was a moan and Vecchio's eyelids fluttered, but his eyes didn't quite open yet.

"Ray," he insisted.

"Fraser?" Ray's voice was weak and blurred, and when he opened his eyes they were clouded.

"Yes, Ray. We have to get you out of here."

The Mountie tried to get his friend into a sitting position. The detective cried in pain and Fraser felt it stab through him like he had been shot instead of Ray.

"I know it hurts," he tried to explain his actions. "But I've to get you out of here and to a doctor."

"Illegals," Ray muttered, eyes drooping. He appeared to be slipping back into unconsciousness. "Here."

"I know."

Fraser stood and lifted Ray up over his shoulders. A gasp told him that the other man was barely awake, but still quite able to feel the pain. Carefully he walked up the few stairs and then listened. No sound. No one seemed to be close. He lifted the trap door, letting Diefenbaker out first, then followed, Ray slung over his shoulders.

He had just closed the door when he heard the door of the cubicle beside the office open. His eyes darted over his immediate surroundings, finding a large crate and deciding that this was his only cover. He ran over, dropped Ray off his shoulder and ducked.

Two men were coming out of the cubicle. One was a Mexican, the other a Caucasian white. The Mexican looked confused and scared.

"We'll just have to give you a medical check, amigo," the other man said, smiling. "We don't want you to be sick, do we? You'll get your papers after that. Come one."

The Mexican's eyes darted over the warehouse, staring at the trapdoor, then the truck, then the office he was led to. He said something Fraser didn't understand, but the man just smiled.

"Everything's gonna be okay, amigo. Your brother has already been checked through and I think he's waiting for you." The man gave the Mexican a little push toward the other door. They disappeared inside.

A little groan made Fraser look at Ray again. The police detective was awake again, looking more alert than mere minutes ago.

"Fraser?" he asked.

"Yes. Diefenbaker brought me here."

Ray smiled slightly. "I always knew that wolf was good for something." Then he sobered. "Listen, there's a whole new bunch of illegal aliens in there. They already killed one of them. You have to call the cops."

"I have to get you out of here first," the Mountie insisted. "You're hurt."

Ray scowled. "It's nothing, Fraser. Just a little hole in my body. These people are getting killed. You've gotta stop the."

For a long time, Ben just looked at his friend, taking in the pain etched features and the large red stain. Though Ben guessed that the artery was not hit, Ray was seriously hurt -- but he was right about the illegal aliens. They were getting killed, even now, and he had to get help.

"Diefenbaker," he finally said, looking at the wolf. "Stay here. Guard Ray."

The wolf growled in agreement and Ray grimaced.

"I don't need no baby-sitter, Benny. All I need is a gun. I'm very well able to defend myself."

"You don't have a gun and neither have I." He gestured at the gun case on his utility belt, which contained only an empty weapon. The Mountie stood. "I'll be back as soon as possible."

"Take your time," Vecchio grumbled, getting himself into a more comfortable, sitting position. "And be careful," he added.

Then Fraser was gone. The police officer leaned back against the crate that hid him, while Diefenbaker lay down beside him, head in his lap. Vecchio grinned a bit, patting the wolf's head.

 

*

 

Fraser had gotten as far as the truck when he heard a yell of alarm, followed by a gunshot. He instinctively dropped to the floor, rolling under the trailer as he had done before. Another shot glanced off the metal of the truck.

"Someone's in here!" he heard a male voice yell, and then there were foot steps. "He's under the truck!"

Fraser's mind was working overtime. From the sound of the footsteps there were about three people running his way. All armed. He was in trouble.

 

*

 

Ray's pain-clouded mind heard the yell and then the shots. He jerked into wakefulness and then felt Diefenbaker growl. It wasn't really an audible growl, just a rumble coming from deep inside the animal's throat. He looked around and his eyes came upon a bunch of metal rods, lying not far away. He grabbed one as a weapon.

" ... under the truck!" was all Ray heard as he tried to get to his feet, pulling himself up on the crate.

Another shot rang through the warehouse.

He had to help Fraser. With all the strength he possessed Ray threw the metal rod toward the office box. It clattered onto the floor with a loud, resonating bang. The three men he had seen approach the truck whirled around, shooting wildly into the direction they had heard the noise coming from.

"Stop it!" one of them commanded. "It's a decoy!"

Ray recognized the man by his voice. It was the one who had shot him. Adrenaline surged through him, giving him a feeling of more strength than he possessed. He picked up another metal rod.

Two of the men turned back to the trailer, while the third one, the one Ray had recognized, came over his way.

"Okay, buddy," Vecchio whispered fiercely, clutching the rod, "pay-back time." He knew that his chances were very slim. The man had a gun, he had a piece of metal. Ray was still handcuffed, the other guy had his hands free.

As the man approached, Ray tensed, forgetting his pain, concentrating on the one, single move he had. He had to act fast, not leaving his opponent any chances. When the man was only a few more steps away, a commotion back at the truck and trailer made him glance over his shoulder very briefly. That was all Ray needed.

With a yell he jumped at the man, brandishing the rod like a sword. The man whirled back, his eyes widening as he saw Ray, who brought the rod down with all his strength. It hit the man at the right shoulder and there was a satisfying, dry sound as his collar-bone broke. The man cried, dropping the weapon, but not falling. Ray had gone with the momentum, falling down on his knees. Pain lanced through him again, his adrenaline level no longer high enough to ignore the pain. He gasped, losing his grip on the rod.

"Sonofabitch!" the man hissed, grabbing for his gun again.

Vecchio's hazel eyes were glazed with pain, but he was clear enough to see the barrel aimed at him. The man's hatred filled face loomed over him.

"Die!" he suggested.

A angry growl was all Ray heard, followed by a cry of pain and surprise. The barrel disappeared out of his immediate line of vision, making place for a something furry white.

"Diefenbaker?" he croaked and was rewarded with a whine and the feeling of a wet nose against his right hand. "Oh, yeach," he muttered, though a grin spread over his lips.

The wolf barked, then whined. Someone touched his arm and he turned his head, expecting Fraser, but seeing a dark-skinned, dark-haired woman with large, frightened eyes. There were bruises on her face and bare arms, and a cut above her eyebrow.

"Who ...?" he croaked.

"You hurt," the woman said, looking at the wound at his side.

Ray recognized her voice. She was the same woman he had talked to when he had been in that cellar. Now she knelt at his side, getting out a handkerchief, which looked decidedly cleaner than everything she wore, and pressed it onto the wound. He gasped.

"Yes," he managed through clenched teeth. "The gun ...." He motioned toward the weapon the man had lost.

The Mexican woman looked at the gun, still scared, but she took it, carefully, then putting it into his blood smeared, cuffed hands.

"Thank you." He tried to get up and groaned with the effort of not giving in to the pain. A pair of hands helped him and he staggered to his feet, offering the Mexican a grateful smile.

She smiled back, the fear turning into something like caution and reluctant relief. "Okay?" she asked.

"Okay," he croaked. "Where's Fraser?" He looked around and discovered one of the two guys who had not followed their boss lying on the floor, not far away from the truck.

"Fraser?" she echoed.

"Guy in a red uniform with a hat," he explained.

She pointed to where the man lay on the floor. Staggering over he saw that the man was deeply unconscious, blood streaming out of his nose and a head wound. Sudden noises made Ray look up from the unconscious man. It sounded like a fight. He readied the weapon and went carefully toward the noise. His vision had a tendency to blur and his head swam. _Blood loss_ , he thought. He had lost too much blood and he was certain that he hadn't much longer until his consciousness faded again.

There was a heavy thud, like a body hitting the floor, accompanied by a gasp for air.

Benny!

Biting his lip he turned around the corner of the trailer, aiming his weapon at whatever opponent there was to face.

Ben Fraser stood over a man on the floor, swaying a bit, but nevertheless all right. He looked a bit out of breath, though. He turned and his eyes widened a bit. He held up a hand.

"No, Ray!"

Ray blinked violently to clear the colorful webs dancing in front of his eyes, but let the weapon drop, feeling his knees beginning to buckle. Seconds ago he had felt able to stand and walk, now he wasn't so sure any longer. Not so sure at all. His knees were filled with jelly and he no longer knew where up or down was, not to speak of left or right. Someone caught him as he tumbled, lowering carefully to the floor.

"Ray!" The anxious voice belonged to Fraser. It was the last thing his conscious mind registered before he fell back into the merciful numbness of unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

Benton Fraser stood a little bit apart from the commotion around and inside the warehouse # 29. He looked outwardly calm, hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid, as if he was standing guard outside the Consulate. But inside was completely different. He had called the police half an hour ago and right now there were dozens of uniformed police men swarming all over the perimeters. The coroner and pathologist had arrived, too, getting to work. There was one dead Mexican, the one who had been found in the trailer. He missed the kidneys, heart and corneas. The one Fraser had seen led into the office had been found. The man was drugged and unconscious, but he was fine. The doctor had been arrested for murder. He had only grinned dryly as he had been cuffed, following the police officers to the car, swaying slightly.

Frank Carter could not have been found anywhere on the premises and there was a country wide search for him going on. They had enough evidence to make the right charges and he would go behind bars for some time -- if they caught him. The organs Fraser had seen in the small boxes had been secured as evidence.

Right now the surviving illegal aliens were being led over to a waiting transporter. One of the two women looked over to Fraser and smiled shyly. He smiled back, nodding at her. He recognized her as the woman who had been with Ray, shortly before he had lost consciousness.

The thought of Ray made his stomach clench into a tight fist and he looked over to where the ambulance had parked. Drawing a steadying breath he walked over to where the two paramedics just wheeled Ray out on a stretcher. Ray's shirt and jacket had been cut away, under mumbled protests of the owner, and the wound had been treated as best as possible with the limited medical equipment the paramedics had. There was a white bandage covering most of Vecchio's stomach area and an IV line was feeding him a clear liquid.

"Hey, Benny," the Chicagoan whispered, looking a bit dazed, though his eyes were clear enough, as Fraser arrived at his side.

"Hello, Ray," he answered.

"We got them, right?" the detective asked weakly.

"Yes, we got them." Fraser eyed his friend, relieved that he was still alive. He had caught Ray the second he had lost consciousness and when he had seen the large, red stain -- larger than before --he had feared the worst. He was looking thinner than he really was and very, very pale. His breathing was slow and painful, though Fraser knew the paramedics had given him a painkiller. Vecchio had lost too much blood, Fraser knew. They had to replace the lost fluid with other liquids and he had to get to surgery soon.

"We'll get him to the Memorial," the paramedic said. "You wanna ride along?"

Ben glanced at Diefenbaker, who was sitting at his side. He knew that dogs were not allowed, not to speak of wolves.

"We'll get him home, Fraser," a voice at his left told him. He turned and found Detective Huey at his side. The black police officer looked serious and very worried. His eyes fell on Ray and Fraser noticed the worry deepening. Ray really didn't look that good. Though Gardino and Huey were not exactly on best of terms with Ray, this situation was bad. Vecchio was a colleague and he had been shot. No quarrel could be bad enough not to offer some help.

"Thank you, Detective Huey," Fraser said, a thankful smile playing over his lips.

"No sweat," the other man answered. "C'mon, Diefenbaker," he then said to the wolf and, much to his visible surprise, the animal followed him.

The Canadian climbed into the back of the waiting ambulance and seconds later the car drove off with sirens blaring.

 

* * *

 

The Memorial Hospital in Fairbanks Street was busy and Benton Fraser tried to keep out of the nurses' way as much as possible. He had followed the paramedics as they had wheeled Ray through the emergency entrance and had given the nurse the necessary information. Then he had settled back onto a chair in the corridor, watching the nurses, doctors and patients. It was now two hours after they had arrived and he had already been called to the phone to talk to Lt. Welsh. Ray's family had arrived, too and was waiting in a separate waiting room. He didn't want to join them. Somehow he didn't want to intrude. But Mrs. Vecchio had left the room to talk to him, her voice very steady and her behavior the one of a woman expecting the worst. She had then returned to her family, unable to convince him to accompany her. He wanted to be alone.

"Mr. Fraser?"

The voice jerked him out of his train of thought and he looked up.

"Yes?"

"I'm Dr. Carrigan," the balding man in front him introduced himself. "I operated your friend, Ray Vecchio."

Ben stood, clutching his hat a bit tighter. "How is he?"

"He's fine, considering he's lost so much blood. The bullet went straight through and thankfully missed the artery. We're giving him some units of blood and he should be fine in a couple of weeks. No stress, no heavy work, of course."

"Thank you, Dr. Carrigan," the Canadian said with audible relief. The tightness in his stomach began to ease a bit.

"You can see him tomorrow if you want to. He's still medicated and won't wake until tomorrow morning." The surgeon looked over to the waiting room. "His family's here, too?"

Fraser nodded.

"Okay. I'll tell them the good news." Carrigan smiled again and then walked over to the waiting room.

Fraser felt himself relax a bit more. Ray was fine. He was really fine. He would survive. Like a mantra he kept repeating this over and over again. With a heartfelt sigh he turned to leave.

 

* * *

 

The hospital room was bright and looking friendly, though the man in the hospital bed did not. There was a definite scowl on Ray Vecchio's face, which had nothing to do with the pain in his side. He hated hospitals. He really, really hated them. And now there was a Mountie standing at the foot of his bed, looking worried and trying to hide it. He hated it.

"Okay, so what's happening out there?" Ray wanted to know.

"Frank Carter has been charged with multiple murder, illegal deals with organs, smuggling illegal aliens across the border and various other things," Fraser explained. "He hasn't been found yet, but there's a warrant of arrest out on him. The doctor has been charged with murder in at least two cases. The illegal aliens will be sent back." He looked a bit sad, though Ray couldn't say whether he was sad for the people being brought back across the border, or the doctor.

"Well, he deserves jail," Vecchio muttered.

"He was a misguided, unhappy man and an addict. They lured him to them with alcohol and promises and forced him to work for them."

"Fraser, don't try to excuse his actions. He was a drunk with a scalpel and he killed innocent people." Ray tried to sit up a bit and winced as his injury protested. "Maybe he was a victim, but he was a damn willing one."

Ben looked a bit indecisive. "Maybe." He played with the rim of his hat.

Ray lifted both eyebrows expectantly. "What's bugging you, Benny?" he finally asked when the silence became unbearable.

Fraser looked a bit surprised, then shook his head. "Nothing. I was just wondering if we couldn't help the illegal aliens settle here." He raised a hopeful eyebrow at Ray.

"Fraser, they have to go back. They are illegal aliens. They don't have a work permit, they don't have a home, we can't let them stay here."

"Yes, but ...."

Vecchio sighed. "Benny. You can't help everyone. They are victims, sure, but they have to go back. Letting them stay would be illegal. They can apply for a work permit and immigrate the legal way."

The Canadian didn't look all that happy about it, but he seemed to accept it.

"Do you need anything?" he finally asked.

"Yeah, do me a favor and keep Francesca away from me, will ya?"

"Oh," Fraser stuttered, looking decidedly unhappy about that.

Ray knew that Francesca had a big time crush on the Mountie and she had tried every known method to get a date with him. But she was always biting on granite where he was concerned. Now he raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Okay," the Canadian finally said, still looking unhappy. "Is she ...." He nodded toward the door.

"She is, as far as I know." The smile broadened. "She and my mother wanted to come over today."

Fraser straightened and took a deep breath, looking like he was about to go into battle. "I think I'll go now, Ray," he said neutrally.

"Ciao, Benny," Ray called cheerfully and then the door closed after Fraser. "And good luck," he added. "You'll need it." Then he settled back into his bed, trying to get comfortable, which seemed more or less impossible. He sighed. Well, at least Francesca wouldn't bother him for today. Then again, he might have to face a stiff Mountie for the next days. Ah, what the heck......


End file.
